


Hell's kitchen, heaven's chef

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Beez is so done with Cowley's shit, But also a darling, Fluff and Humor, Food, It's not just the food that's spicy here, Just a lot of thirsting, M/M, Warlock is a moody preteen, but no explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Crowley is a high-strung chef - one of London's best - but his boss Beez is fed up with his tricks. So they hire a mild-mannered blonde chef to keep him in line.Crowley hates the guy.Except that he doesn't, not even a little.---Human AU, in which they are chefs and idiots.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 283
Kudos: 348
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Fillet steak, well done

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something light and fluffy (much like a souffle) to take a break from all the angst I've been writing lately.
> 
> This is inspired by Mostly Martha (and No Reservations, but I preferred the original). I watched it when it came out (what, 18 or 19 years ago?) and all of a sudden the other day the scene with the steak popped up in my brain and demanded to be rewritten for Crowley. So here you go, a restaurant AU.
> 
> This should update regularly on Wednesdays and Saturdays, unless I feel inspired to write more quickly. Will probably top out at about 8 chapters, but that may change...  
> Might also go up to an M rating if these two can't behave themselves 😉
> 
> On an unrelated note, I just noticed this is my 10th GO story on AO3, which feels pretty cool 😊

Inferno was one of the culinary hotspots of London, a heaven of sorts that every foodie in the UK dreamed of visiting.

If Dante had been able to witness the scenes playing out in the kitchen of this particular Inferno, however, he might have felt inclined to add another circle to his vision of hell. Although what kind of sinners would be condemned to spend eternity there was anyone’s guess.

If you asked Crowley, head chef, the deepest pits of damnation should be reserved for the mediocre, the careless and the bloody idiot line cook that can’t season a simple sauce properly.

“Who over-salted the fucking velouté again?” he called, dumping the whole pot out in the sink. “Fix it _now!_ ”

The poor _commis_ in question knew better than to argue; he just made his way mutely to the cold room to collect ingredients for a second round amid sympathetic glances form his colleagues.

A professional kitchen on a busy night is chaos at the best of times. Add a perfectionistic head chef with zero tolerance for error and the people skills of a brick, and you had a recipe for disaster. Crowley was... frankly, he was a nightmare to work for.

Unfortunately, he was also the best of the best. His extraordinary skill made young, naive chefs dream of working with him, but after a few days on the job most decided that dealing with his foul temper wasn’t worth it. Crowley went through line cooks faster than toilet paper.

Regardless, he’d been the head chef at Inferno for three years now, a personal record for him; and even this was probably only because Beez, the owner, was every bit as crazy as he was. Plus there was no small amount of gratitude involved: it was Crowley’s legendary food that had put Inferno on the culinary map in the first place.

Crowley was moving between the various stations, pointing out errors in his none-too-gentle way, stopping at the at the pickup counter every few minutes to check each plate before it went out. It was _his_ reputation on the line, after all.

It was a fucking hell of a night. Saturdays were always their busiest night, and to make matters worse his sous chef hadn’t shown up for work. Idiot. He made a mental note to have the guy fired as he ran around trying to do three people’s work at once.

Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, a nervous looking server came into the kitchen holding a plate of what Crowley instantly recognised as his signature Wagyu fillet steak. It was one of those dishes he always cooked himself; he didn’t trust anyone else to get it right.

“What?” he barked at the server, who was quaking in his shoes.

“Table eight wants this well done,” the young man squeaked.

“Bullshit!” Crowley yelled. “What kind of halfwit wants the best steak in the world cooked well done? I’m not doing it.”

“Re-cook the fucking steak, Crowley,” came an irritated voice from the kitchen door. Oh great, it was Beez, the one person with the power to fire his ass. Not that they would. But still.

“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll redo it. But I’m not cooking that fucking meat to death.”

Beez just rolled their eyes as Crowley stomped off to the cold room to fetch a new steak.

\--

Aziraphale was on a date. He hadn’t been particularly keen on the idea, but his sister had been trying to set him up with Gabriel for months now. In the end it was only the promise of dinner at Inferno that convinced him. He’d been dying to try it since he got back from Paris, but it took weeks to get a reservation and he’d never been particularly good at planning ahead.

The food was every bit as spectacular as he’d hoped. His starter of seared scallops and fresh asparagus had been absolutely delightful, complimented beautifully by the sauvignon blanc recommended by the sommelier. Now he was inhaling deeply over a dish of braised rabbit with celeriac puree, and his mouth started watering in anticipation.

“Do you mind if I...” Aziraphale gestured at his plate. He had been mortified when Gabriel sent back his steak, demanding that it be cooked ‘properly’. Did he really think he knew more about cooking a steak than the best chef in London? The man had absolutely no taste. Either way, Aziraphale wasn’t about to let his own food get cold because Gabriel thought it was ‘gross’ if his steak was still juicy.

“Go ahead,” Gabriel said, seeming disinterested. Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice.

He speared a piece of the rabbit flesh, so tender that it could probably be cut with a spoon, and added some of the celeriac mash and gravy to the bite on his fork. The first taste of a dish was always an almost worshipful experience, and Aziraphale closed his eyes before bringing the morsel to his mouth.

The flavours that exploded on his tongue were a revelation, and a happy sigh escaped through his nose. He may have moaned a little, but he would never admit that.

“Ooh, that’s simply scrummy,” he said after swallowing. “Do you want a taste?” he asked Gabriel, because Aziraphale liked nothing better than to feed people.

“Sure,” said Gabriel, reaching over with his fork to take a bite.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked eagerly.

“Hmm. Nice,” Gabriel said. “At least it’s cooked through, unlike my steak.”

Nice? Aziraphale thought to himself. _Nice?_ That was such an understatement it was practically an insult!

His incipient fit of spluttering indignation was interrupted by the reappearance of their server, bearing a new plate of food for Gabriel.

“Awfully sorry about that, sir,” said the young man as he placed the plate down. “The chef has redone the dish completely. I trust it will be to your satisfaction.” Aziraphale thought the poor man sounded unnecessarily nervous; it wasn’t his cooking, after all.

“Wait,” said Gabriel, picking up his knife and slicing off a sliver of meat. Aziraphale could see that the meat had just the barest tinge of pink to it; it was probably as well-done as one could make a good steak without ruining it completely, although it was far too overcooked for his tastes. A prod with his own fork confirmed his suspicion that it was perfectly cooked, or at least as perfect as a well-done steak could be.

“No, this won’t do at all,” Gabriel huffed, pushing the plate away. “This meat is pink, that means it’s raw. Please tell your chef to do it properly this time. If he doesn’t know what ‘well done’ means, I suggest he googles it.”

The poor server looked like he was walking to his execution as he took the plate and slunk off back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale wanted to chide his date, but he thought that would probably be bad manners (a most grievous sin in his book), so he settled for remarking, “the steak looked pretty good to me.”

“Trust me, Sunshine, it was undercooked. I know about these things,” Gabriel said with a smug smirk.

Yes, well, so do I, Aziraphale thought to himself. A fact you may have been aware of if you bothered to ask me anything about myself instead of talking about your bloody share portfolio and football team all night.

He sighed and took a sip of his pinot noir, which paired so perfectly with the rabbit that it almost made him forget about the miserable company. Okay, so the date had been a complete bust, but at least he could get one unforgettable meal out of the experience. He turned back to his food and concentrated on savouring every bite.

He didn’t get far before he became aware of a commotion from the direction of the kitchen. It seemed as if someone was trying to barge into the dining room while several others were trying unsuccessfully to stop them.

As the person came closer, Aziraphale realised it was a man, dressed like the chef for a goth vampire: black chef’s jacket, black apron, black cap, even (Aziraphale leaned over a bit to make sure) black trousers and black shoes. The man was a walking slice of midnight.

As he got closer, Aziraphale could see the man was scowling, if such a mild word could do his expression justice, and he appeared to be holding a large knife with something impaled on it. And, oh dear, he was heading right for them.

Gabriel hadn’t noticed the approaching storm, and so he yelped in surprise when the chef stabbed the knife into the table, knocking over Aziraphale’s wine glass in the process.

“What the fuck?” Gabriel yelled, looking from the mess on the table to the purple-red splatters now marring his fancy grey suit.

Aziraphale stifled a giggle as he examined the object now acting as their centrepiece. It was a piece of meat, charred beyond the point of edibility – Gabriel’s steak, no doubt.

“You want your steak cooked to death, you got it,” the chef sneered. “But next time, do the world a favour and don’t waste a decent piece of meat, just swing by MacDonald’s and get one of their patties. By the time you cook the life out of it, it will all taste equally shit anyway.”

This time Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the chuckle that bubbled up in his chest. Gabriel’s face was just too much. The chef shot him an angry glare.

“Crowley!” came an angry voice from somewhere in the distance.

“Oh fuck,” the chef – the famous Mr Crowley, apparently – said emphatically. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared to the kitchen. A short, black haired person who was positively radiating wrath approached their table.

“Oh fu- bother,” said the person when they saw the mess on the table. “I’m awfully sorry about that. Let me get you a clean tablecloth. And a new plate of food. On the house, yeah?”

Aziraphale was about to reassure the frantic little server that no real harm was done, but Gabriel got their first, rudely demanding to see the manager.

“That would be me,” the not-a-server said. “Manager, owner, about to have a mental breakdown – take your pick.”

“My pick would be to get the hell out of here,” Gabriel said, throwing his napkin down on the table and getting up. “Come, Aziraphale.”

“But, but I’m still busy,” Aziraphale gestured to his half-eaten meal. “I haven’t even had dessert yet.” Dinner without dessert was sacrilege, in Aziraphale’s books. He loved it so much that he sometimes had it first.

“Seriously?” Gabriel said. “You’re gonna stay here and eat that prick’s food?”

“Yes, I think I am,” Aziraphale said calmly. “It’s been far more enjoyable than the company.”

Gabriel gave Aziraphale a look of utter disbelief, before storming out.

“Anything you want, on the house,” the manager said, looking at Aziraphale with something like awe.

“Thank you ever so much,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Could we start with a refill on my wine? And perhaps the dessert menu once I’m done.”

When Aziraphale was leaving, the strange little manager came up to apologise for their chef’s outburst once again.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “It made for a rather unforgettable evening. Although the food would have done that by itself. Please do relay my compliments to the chef.”

“Seriously?” said the manager. “You won’t make trouble for us over this or anything?”

“Oh, dear me, no,” said Aziraphale, “although I can’t promise anything for my date. He seems like quite an unpleasant man, I’m afraid.”

“Quite,” said the manager, smiling wryly. Then they added, “please feel free to come back any time. Ask for me by name when you do.”

“Well, to do that I would need to know your name first,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Beez Prince,” said the manager, extending their hand.

“Aziraphale Fell,” Aziraphale answered, returning the handshake.

“Why does that sound so familiar?” Beez wondered to themself. Aziraphale could almost see when the light bulb of recognition clicked on. Ah, damn. “Wait a minute!” they said. “Aren’t you-?”

“Probably, but shh,” Aziraphale said, pressing a finger to his lips. He didn’t want a scene.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Beez said. “No wonder you know your fine dining. Where are you working nowadays?”

“Oh, you know how it is. I’m rather between engagements at the moment,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Is that so?” Beez said with a calculating sort of expression. “Say, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

\--

Crowley hadn’t expected any further business from table eight, so he was surprised when an order for dessert came in not long after his little performance.

Crowley wondered if Beez had gotten a second seating at the table. That obnoxious man with the steak hadn’t looked like he’d be hanging around. He risked a glance out the kitchen door to see that steak-man was gone, but his date was still sitting at the table. Hmm, maybe he wasn’t the only one who found the guy insufferable.

“He asked for the chef’s recommendation,” said the server, pulling Crowley’s attention back to the kitchen. “What should I put it through as?”

Crowley ended up sending out his personal favourite, a rich chocolate fondant pudding infused with just a hint of chilli, served with his simple but utterly perfect handmade vanilla ice-cream. Even if he were a humble man, he’d still have to admit it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted.

It was not an apology, he told himself adamantly. It was a matter of professional pride. He was a show-off, he was, and he had something to prove.

And because he was a shameless snoop, he hid behind the kitchen door and watched as the server took the dessert out to steak-man’s date. He hadn’t really noticed the man before, blinded by rage as he had been. There was nothing especially remarkable about the guy, all beige clothes and blonde hair, but Crowley’s memory supplied an image of him chuckling as his date fumed at Crowley’s ranting. He realised he would very much like to see that smile again.

He spied as the dessert was delivered, smiled to himself as he watched the man regard the little dish with rapt anticipation. And then, oh, the expression on his face when he took the first bite... it would keep Crowley warm on even the coldest winter night. Satisfied, he ducked back into the kitchen to face the chaos of the rest of the evening service.

When the dessert plate came back from table eight, he was gratified to note that it was scraped clean of every last crumb. Hopefully the dessert had made up for the man’s disaster of a date. _See Beez_ , he said to himself, _no harm done_.

If only that were the end of it.


	2. Crepes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beez is Done (TM).  
> Crowley and Azirpahale meet - properly. Sparks fly.

Crowley knew he was in trouble when he arrived at Inferno on Sunday morning to find Beez’s car in the parking lot. The restaurant didn’t open till noon, so he usually had the place to himself until about ten. Beez never came in this early unless they had a bone to pick with Crowley.

Crowley sighed as he parked his bike. He was used to Beez yelling at him; they were short-tempered and he was an arsehole, it was a match made in drama heaven. He would nod and scowl and make whatever promises Beez required (not that he ever remembered those the next day), so that they would leave him alone to get on with his work.

They were waiting for him in the kitchen, a bundle of sullen energy in ripped denim and black leather. When they weren’t on the job, Beez resembled nothing so much as an angry grunge-punk from the eighties. The look suited their personality far better than their cleaned-up customer service façade.

“Crowley,” they greeted him.

“Beez,” he replied. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I own this fucking place, Crowley,” Beez retorted. “You might do well to remember that once in a while.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Is this about last night?” he asked.

“No, Crowley,” Beez snapped, “last night was just the final straw atop a huge, stinking shitpile of problems you’ve been giving me. Do you know who that man was you pissed off?”

“Who? Steak-man? His date seemed pretty happy with my cooking.”

“Don’t change the subject, asshole,” Beez said with a scowl. They passed their phone over to Crowley. “That was the newest restaurant critic for Dine Divine.”

“The fuck?” Crowley said. Dine Divine was the best-known restaurant-related magazine in Europe. It wielded a power second only to Michelin itself. “That arse knows nothing about good food. He wanted his steak cooked well-done, Beez. The horror!”

“Be that as it may,” Beez said, “he decided to write a delightful little review on their blog. Read it.” Beez gestured.

Crowley’s spirits sank as he read the article. What a disaster. Granted, it didn’t say much about the food, but the whole thing managed to present the restaurant in the worse possible light.

“Shit,” Crowley hissed as he gave the phone back.

“Shit is right,” Beez said. “It’s what you’re into up to your neck.”

“Look, I’m sorry about all this, this... this,” Crowley gestured helplessly. “But what was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to say in the kitchen and _do your job_ ,” Beez said.

“My job is to cook the best food in London,” Crowley retorted.

“Your job is to give the customer what they ask for. And your job is most definitely _not_ to storm out of the kitchen like a raging bull every time someone criticises your food! And while we’re on the subject, your job is also not to terrify and alienate every other cook in London. Care to explain why Ligur sent me a letter of resignation yesterday?”

Ah, shit. “I was gonna tell you to fire him anyway. Man can’t cook a vegetable properly to save his life.”

“You threw a bowl of soup at him, Crowley!” Beez burst out. “I don’t give a damn what he did wrong, you can’t just go around abusing the kitchen staff. Do you have any idea how many workplace harassment claims I’ve had to pay out over the last three years?”

“Whu-?” Crowley interjected eloquently. He’d never, ever make any sort of sexual advances at work; it was one of his few iron-clad rules.

“Violence, Crowley,” Beez said, exasperated. “Intimidation. Yelling, swearing, throwing things. Any of this ring a bell?”

Oh.

“You’re not Gordon bloody Ramsey,” Beez went on. “You’re not the star of a TV show that pays you for this sort of shit. Out here in the real world, your prima donna antics are giving me nothing but trouble.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “I never realised. It’s just that...”

“I know, I know. You have standards, right?” Beez said this with a sneer, which immediately got Crowley’s hackles up.

“Of fucking course I do!” he bit back. “How do you think Inferno became one of the best restaurants in London, hey?”

“Nevertheless,” Beez said coolly, “ I think we could all use a break. A breath of fresh air, as it were.”

“Fuck, are you firing me?” Crowley asked.

“No, I’m not stupid. I still need you; Satan help me.” Beez rolled their eyes in exasperation. “But I’m hiring a new head chef. You’re demoted to sous until you learn to act like a human being.”

“What?!” Crowley burst out. “You can’t do that!”

“You see, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Beez said, unperturbed. “The moment you don’t get your way, you throw a tantrum. So I’m putting someone else in charge until you learn your manners.”

“Ridiculous!” Crowley almost shouted. “I’ll quit if you do!”

“Oh yeah,” Beez retorted. “And who exactly do you think would hire you? You have a reputation as the worst chef to work with in probably the whole of London, no one else would touch you. It’s a nightmare even finding cooks willing to work here, even though I pay better than any other restaurant in the area.”

Crowley deflated a bit at that revelation. He hadn’t realised things were that bad. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he said, defeated.

“Nope,” Beez said brightly. “The new guy will be here tomorrow, 9am sharp. Be here.”

“But it’s my day off!” Crowley protested.

“Tough luck,” Beez said, uncaring. “You show up to meet this guy tomorrow, or you don’t bother showing up again at all. Got it?”

Shit, Beez could be terrifying if they wanted to be. Especially when they held Crowley’s livelihood in their hands.

“Fine, fine,” Crowley said, sulkily. “Will there be anything else, your lordship?”

“Don’t be an ass, Crowley,” they said. “This will be good for us.” They turned on their heel and walked out.

“I highly doubt it,” Crowley muttered to himself. Then he shelved that thought and got started on his prep work for the evening’s service.

\---

Crowley thought he was clever, setting an alarm for Monday morning with a reminder that he had to get to work and go meet whatever idiot Beez had hired to replace him. (Hah! As if anyone could replace him!)

What he hadn’t counted on was that he would hit ‘stop’ instead of ‘snooze,’ and only wake up half an hour before his supposed meeting. When he saw the time he fell out of bed, literally, earning him a bruise on his forehead from the bedside table.

That set the tone for the morning, really. He fumbled his way through his morning routine, swearing under his breath at the sheer stupidity of a world that seemed out to get him. In his haste he put body lotion in his hair instead of conditioner, half his socks seemed to have gone missing in the night, and his keys were nowhere to be found (he eventually located them in the laundry hamper, in the pocket of yesterday’s jeans). To top it all off, half his cup of coffee ended up on his shirt, forcing him to change yet again. Fuck, now he really would be late.

He skidded into the parking area at quarter past, parked in record time, and entered through the kitchen door already bracing himself for Beez’s outburst.

But instead of an angry manager, he was greeted by enthusiastic violin music and the smell of cooking batter. Someone was cooking, in _his_ kitchen, when he wasn’t there? The bloody nerve!

The culprit was standing at the stove with his back to the door, swaying to the music as he worked, blissfully unaware of the hostile presence at the door. He was wearing white, which was almost an offense in itself. _No-one_ wore white in Crowley’s kitchen. He wore black, of course, and the rest of his cooks wore grey. The chefs he’d trained under at the Academy had been almost militaristic in their insistence on pristine white uniforms at all times, and Crowley’s skill in the kitchen was matched only by his ability to spill everything he touched on himself. His fellow students used to joke that he looked like a walking illustration of the day’s menu. When he finally graduated, he swore that he would never again wear white in a kitchen.

Crowley grabbed the man’s phone off the counter and shut off the music. “Excuse me,” he said as he hit stop.

The other man whirled around, frying pan in hand. “Oh, hello there,” he greeted brightly. “You must be Crowley. I’ve been waiting you.”

“And you thought you’d just, what, waltz in here and take over my kitchen? Make a mess and have an impromptu concert?”

“I’m sorry,” the other man said, still smiling his serene little smile. “Do you not like Vivaldi?”

“Vi-what? No, not the point,” Crowley said. “The point is. The point. The... um...” Crowley wound down as an insistent thought that had been knocking on his brain finally caught his attention. The man looked oddly familiar, but for the life of him he couldn’t place his face. Blonde curls, soft cheeks, eyes that crinkled at the corners as he smiled. If Crowley weren’t so pissed off, he might even call him cute.

The white-clad chef regarded him with amusement. “The point, my dear, is that I was getting peckish, so I decided to whip us up some breakfast. I do hope you like crepes. I daresay I can make a decent crepe, even if it can’t quite compete with your chocolate fondant pudding.”

That did the trick. Suddenly a memory clicked into place, of this same face smiling over dessert two night ago. “You’re steak-man’s date!” he said incredulously.

The blonde laughed, a joyful, tinkling thing. “Oh, I’m sure Gabriel would be appalled at that nickname,” he said. “Please, do carry on using it. I’m Aziraphale Fell.” He stuck out the hand that wasn’t currently holding a frying pan.

Crowley shook his hand mutely. He was feeling a little off-balance.

“Beez is in their office, they said you should go round there when you arrived,” Aziraphale carried on, seemingly oblivious to Crowley’s discomfort. “I’ll finish up here, and then we can talk business over breakfast. Pop along now.” He made a shooing motion with his fingers as he spoke before turning back to the stove, and Crowley was so dumbfounded at the man’s sheer audacity that he turned and went without another word.

\--

Aziraphale grinned to himself as he turned back to the stove. That had gone better than expected. He was well aware of Crowley’s reputation as a first-rate chef, and a couple of hours spent on the internet the previous day had given him some idea of the man’s personality. Honestly, their first encounter was almost anticlimactic; he’d been expecting at least a bit of shouting and swearing.

And the fact that Crowley remembered him from Saturday night... well, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that yet. He wasn’t a particularly memorable sort of person, he knew; he rather tended to fade into the background. Even when there was nothing else for him to be a background to. But then again, the whole scene with Gabriel had been a pretty memorable one.

He was just sliding the last crepe onto a plate when Crowley reappeared.

“Ah, right on time,” he said, pre-empting whatever remark the grumpy man wanted to make. “Be a dear and organise us some tea while I get the fillings for these.”

He bustled off in the direction of the fridge, leaving Crowley gaping once again. Maybe the secret was just to not give him a chance to speak first, Aziraphale mused.

Before long they were seated on bar stools at one of the prep counters, bowls of spiced apple compote and vanilla mascarpone between them. Aziraphale dished up for himself and motioned for Crowley to do the same. The man hadn’t said a word since getting back from Beez’s office, opting instead to glower at Aziraphale with his arms crossed. It was getting a little disconcerting.

“So, what do we need to talk about?” Aziraphale asked brightly, hoping to get the conversation going.

“You tell me,” Crowley huffed. “Apparently you’re in charge now.” Dear Lord, the man was a world-class sulk. Worse than a two-year old.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said. “It’s still your kitchen, your menu. I’m just supposed to – how did Beez put it? – make sure Crowley doesn’t kill any staff or patrons.”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?” Crowley said.

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale admitted cheerfully, bringing a bite of crepe to his lips. He hummed in appreciation at the combination of creamy mascarpone and spicy apple.

Crowley just glared at him. Clearly, he was going to have to do the hard work in this conversation.

“Okay, I have a suggestion,” Aziraphale said after swallowing his mouthful. “For the first night, keep going as you always do. I’ll just sort of... hang around, get a feel for how things work. And then we’ll take it from there. Does that sound agreeable?”

Crowley gave a vaguely affirmative grunt.

“Excellent.” Aziraphale smiled happily. “Now please, do have a bite to eat, before you waste away to nothing.”

“Don’t do breakfast,” Crowley grumped.

“Oh come now,” Aziraphale cajoled. “I spent years in Paris learning to make the perfect crepe, you can’t possibly refuse! Go on, try one. Please?” He gave Crowley his most winning pout, the one that could put a sympathetic viewer in mind of the Cutest Puppy in the World™ trying to get out of trouble. It had never failed him yet.

“Fine,” Crowley relented, helping himself to a crepe.

Aziraphale watched him closely over the rim of his teacup; personal differences aside, he had a great deal of respect for Crowley’s opinion as a fellow chef, and he was just a little nervous to see the man’s reaction.

He needn’t have worried. Crowley tried to hide his enjoyment, but Aziraphale didn’t miss the way his eyes widened when he took the first bite. The crepe was gone in a few more bites.

“Not bad,” Crowley said, trying to act all nonchalant as he helped himself to seconds. Aziraphale preened inwardly.

“High praise indeed,” he said drily. “Let’s finish up, and then you should probably talk me through the menu.”

\--

When they parted ways several hours later, Crowley wasn’t sure what to think anymore. He’d come into the kitchen this morning intending to be as difficult as possible, determined to make this new guy quit as soon as possible – preferably before he properly started. Instead, he’d found himself charmed to within an inch of his life.

Aziraphale hadn’t gotten any less cute as their breakfast and subsequent meeting progressed, with his twinkling eyes and his soft smile and his absolute refusal to let Crowley’s foul mood get to him.

Crowley was experienced in the art of being an utter arse. In his experience people reacted to him in two ways: either by trying to out-arsehole him (a game only Beez had ever won), or by shutting up and doing what he told them. Aziraphale had done neither. He hadn’t been the least bit intimidated by Crowley’s menacing aura; if anything, he’d seemed faintly amused, like one might be with a toddler trying to stake a claim as king of the world. It was rather insulting, now that Crowley had a chance to think about it. He was a scary sort of person, damn it!

They had gone through the menu in detail, and Crowley caught himself forgetting that this man was an intruder, a competitor to be ruthlessly eliminated. Instead, it felt like discussing a shared project with an old friend.

And then, when they said goodbye, and Aziraphale shook his hand and said, _“I look forward to working with you, Crowley,”_ with such sincerity, his stupid pretty mouth pulling into a smile and his sparkling fucking eyes crinkling in genuine delight...

Fuck, no. That funny feeling in his stomach? It was anger. Yup. Rage and jealousy and hatred. He wouldn’t allow it to be anything else. Cute or not, Aziraphale would have to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Crowley. You keep telling yourself that...


	3. Timeout in the cooler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's first night cooking in Inferno's kitchen. What could possibly go wrong?

Beez was nervous. It was Aziraphale’s first night in the kitchen, and there was no telling how Crowley would react. Probably wouldn’t be pretty. Based on Crowley’s track record and his general attitude to anyone giving him orders, they expected bloodshed before the end of the night. Possibly literally.

On the other hand, the two chefs had managed to get along well enough when they met yesterday. No shouting, hardly any grumbling. Perhaps it would be okay.

Beez decided to stay near the kitchen just in case.

Coming up to opening time, Beez decided to pop into the kitchen to check on things. They found Aziraphale serenely sampling the pots of base sauces, adding a bit of seasoning here, complimenting the _saucier_ on a particularly tasty sauce there. For some unfathomable reason, there was music playing, something light and classical. That was definitely a first.

Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s the crazy one?” Beez asked, slinking up behind Aziraphale.

“If you mean Crowley, he said he was going to check on the meat,” Aziraphale replied. “Try the coolers.”

Beez found Crowley in the walk-in fridge, muttering to himself and banging his head against a shelf.

“Have you finally flipped, then?” they drawled.

“What? No!” Crowley barked. “What are you doing in my kitchen anyway?”

“Just checking in,” Beez reassured him. “Making sure you’re not fucking with the new guy.”

Crowley’s face went an interesting shade of pink at that statement. He spluttered off a string of incoherent sounds, causing Beez to snort with laughter.

“Fuck off, Beez,” Crowley scowled. “I’ve got work to do.” And with that he pushed past Beez, back into the main kitchen area.

“Behave!” they shouted after him, earning a middle finger over his shoulder. They grinned.

Two hours into the evening service, and Beez felt like it might be safe to breathe again; maybe, this time, Crowley wouldn’t fuck it up. Somehow, the kitchen was running more smoothly that Beez had ever seen. Not one angry word, not one thrown plate. And the weird thing was that Aziraphale didn’t seem to be doing much except hang around smiling amiably and talking to the cooks. Crowley was a blur of black as he rushed around, making sure that every single plate went out perfect, but for once he managed to do it without shouting or cursing or making anyone cry.

Fascinating.

Astonishingly, this run of perfect luck lasted right up until closing time, making it officially the most peaceful night Inferno’s kitchen had ever experienced. Beez cornered Aziraphale on the way out.

“Okay, tell me, what ‘s your secret?” they demanded

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“Look, Fell,” Beez said, “This is the first time in... ever, I think, that I haven’t heard Crowley shout at anyone all night. What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Oh surely you’re exaggerating,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “He seemed perfectly civil to me. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but certainly not hostile.”

“We’re talking about the same person, right?” Beez said in disbelief. “Red hair, black uniform, forty-year-old walking teenage tantrum?”

Aziraphale just laughed it off. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. It was a perfectly normal night in the kitchen.”

“Not for here,” Beez muttered. “But okay. You just... keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

\--

Aziraphale mused over Beez’s words on the way home. For some reason they had seemed utterly astonished at the... well, normalcy of his first shift. Okay, so Crowley hadn’t been anything like his online stalking had led him to expect. He’d braced himself for a nightmare of an evening, something straight out of Hell’s Kitchen, and instead he’d found an extraordinarily talented chef who didn’t have the faintest idea how to communicate with other humans. A lack Aziraphale was well equipped to make up for.

It had started in the afternoon when they were still busy with prep. Crowley had come over to inspect something, and his face made it clear he was displeased. He’d taken a deep breath and Aziraphale could sense the impending outburst; kind of like one of those cartoon thermometers where the red stuff rises and rises until the top swells out and explodes all over the place. Maybe he could do something to defuse it.

He’d laid a kind hand on the man’s elbow and asked “Problem?”

Crowley had gaped at him. Properly gaped, with his mouth open and no sounds coming out. Finally he managed to mutter his complaint, and stomped off.

Aziraphale turned back to the cook, who seemed even more shocked than Crowley had been, and relayed the instructions.

And that was the key. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Crowley was rubbish at talking to his cooks. So Aziraphale had come up with the obvious solution: he would stay close to Crowley, Crowley would talk to him, and he would talk to the others. Crowley grunted his assent to the plan, and so they tried it out.

It worked fairly well, but there were a few hiccups.

For example, when Crowley shoved an overcooked piece of fish at him and snapped, “Tell Eric to do this properly!”

There was no Eric in the kitchen. Hadn’t been for over two years. Over the course of the evening, Aziraphale managed to find out that there had been three line cooks named Eric working in the kitchen when Crowley first arrived, and he got so used to yelling at Eric that he just never stopped. No-one was sure if he even knew that the Erics were long gone; he certainly never bothered to learn anyone else’s names. Usually when Crowley yelled for Eric, the nearest person would respond, and then they’d pass on the mess to whoever seemed to be responsible for it.

He’d have to talk to Crowley about that, he supposed.

There was also a tense moment when a diner returned a plate of food, claiming it wasn’t what they’d ordered, but Aziraphale managed to talk Crowley down from an incipient meltdown – even if it did take a threat of _“Don’t make me pull rank on you.”_

Crowley had disappeared into the walk-in fridge for a couple of minutes after that. It happened a few times during the course of the shift, actually, and Aziraphale wondered what he was doing in there. There wasn’t much for him to check on, and he never came out with anything, so he wasn’t fetching ingredients. Did he have a secret booze stash, perhaps? Aziraphale doubted it; Crowley didn’t smell like alcohol.

These little oddities aside, it had been a perfectly pleasant evening. The rest of the staff had taken to him almost instantly, but he didn’t read too much into that; he supposed after Crowley’s tyranny anyone with a lighter touch would be a welcome relief. He had to admit that he’d rather taken to them, too. It had been a while since he worked in a restaurant kitchen, and he’d started to forget just how much he loved it.

Yes, he thought as he smiled to himself, he could be happy here. Very happy indeed.

\--

Crowley was the last to leave that night, as was his habit. He didn’t trust anyone else to make sure that the kitchen would be left in order for the next day. A wise man wouldn’t point out that he was the first to come in every morning for the same reason.

Beez came around on their way out.

“So, how did it go?” they drawled, leaning against the doorframe.

“Fine, I guess,” Crowley mumbled.

“Seemed a bit better than just fine, if you ask me,” they smirked.

Beez was right, of course, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of admitting it.

“This will be good for you, Crowley. Good for the restaurant. Don’t fuck it up.”

Crowley just grunted.

Beez finally gave up on the conversation with a roll of their eyes. “Fine, be like that. See you tomorrow, arsehole.”

Crowley flipped them off in lieu of a wave.

Truth was, he didn’t really know what to think about the whole situation. On the one hand, he was royally pissed off. Aziraphale had waltzed into his kitchen as if he owned the place, subtly distorting the whole space around him, like a new planet wandering into a solar system and upsetting its whole balance. Crowley had a carefully crafted regime of terror going, and he didn’t fancy the way Aziraphale was upsetting it with his smiles and music and _niceness_.

On the other hand, Crowley had to admit that it worked. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t claim that it had any negative impact on the food. Every dish had been as delicious and as beautifully presented as ever. Only difference was that it took a lot less shouting from him, and for once, he got to the end of the night without a headache or a burning craving for a stiff drink. If it could be like that every night, he might just be able to tolerate Aziraphale’s benevolent presence.

Oh, who was he kidding. He would do a lot more than tolerate it. He enjoyed it. It was refreshing, being able to focus on his craft and have someone else handle all the unpleasant talking-to-people bits. He’d never particularly liked those.

And Aziraphale was... well. He was something else. Monday’s meeting had already shown Crowley that Aziraphale was extremely likeable; kind and humble in a way that was rare in among professional chefs. And he was certainly attractive, not that that was in any way relevant. Except that it was. Because Crowley hadn’t realised until tonight how goddamn _sexy_ the man could be.

He first noticed it when Aziraphale been tasting the rabbit, the same bloody rabbit Crowley had served him that first night, and he gave a pleased little moan that sounded, to Crowley’s suddenly hormone-addled brain, like the soundtrack to a fucking porno. And then, a while later, he’d put one soft hand on Crowley’s elbow, and Crowley’s brain decided to leave the building.

He had to put himself in timeout after that. The walk-in fridge was perfect for that, seeing as it was nearly soundproof so he could scold himself as much as he needed. The frigid air also helped, in the absence of a cold shower.

So. Aziraphale was still a problem. A massive one. But maybe a different _kind_ of problem than he’d originally expected.


	4. Dim sum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their first week of working together, Crowley and Azirpahale end up spending their day off together too.

The next few nights passed in the same easy fashion. It took them almost no time to fall into a comfortable rhythm of working together.

Crowley was starting to learn that Aziraphale was a fantastic chef in his own right; even though he always deferred to Crowley’s final decision, the suggestions he made were spot-on. It was a little annoying that he could improve on dishes Crowley had been carefully crafting for months, although he did it in such a delightful way that it was hard to be mad about it. And in his own demure, charming way he was every bit as much of a bastard as Crowley was. He didn’t let Crowley intimidate him one bit, which was equal parts infuriating and intoxicating.

By the end of the week, Aziraphale had made himself so at home that he was staying right until Crowley left, chatting comfortably over the evening’s work as they set up for the next day. It was... pleasant, in a way nothing had ever quite been before.

Sunday night marked the end of their first successful week working together. Beez had already left, after greeting them with a disgustingly smug look on their face. They knew they’d won this one.

“Well, that’s about it,” Aziraphale said, dropping his kitchen towel into the laundry bag.

“Guess so,” Crowley said. It was ridiculous, he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for a whole day, but he didn’t want the evening to be over yet. Because they were closed tomorrow. And fuck it all, he realised he would actually miss Aziraphale.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday, then?” Aziraphale said, heading out.

“Tomorrow,” Crowley blurted out.

“I’m sorry?”

“I thought I might go to the Asian market tomorrow,” Crowley said, inventing furiously. “Shopping, researching, you know. Wanna come with?”

Aziraphale gave Crowley one of his beaming smiles. “That sounds lovely!”

“Great. Meet you here at, um... ten?”

“See you then, my dear.” Aziraphale gave his arm a friendly squeeze as he passed by on his way to the door.

“See you.”

Crowley stood there for another minute or so, gathering his wits. He rubbed a hand over where Aziraphale had touched his arm. _My dear._

Fuck.

What the fuck was he doing?

He was in so much trouble.

\--

Aziraphale was humming as he walked the few short blocks to the restaurant, smiling amiably at the people he passed.

There was no sign of Crowley when he got to the restaurant, and not for the first time Aziraphale cursed his own habit of always showing up early for everything.

At least he didn’t have to wait long. At ten AM sharp, a black and red motorcycle pulled up to the steps where he was waiting. The helmet’s visor was lifted to reveal Crowley’s grin.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he said, smiling.

“Hello,” Aziraphale returned with a smile of his own. For absolutely no reason at all, his eyes drifted down to take in Crowley’s black leather jacket, tight black jeans and black boots. Dear Lord, the man looked good enough to eat.

“So,” Aziraphale remarked, aware that his staring must be obvious, “I see the black isn’t just a uniform thing.”

“Hmm, and neither is your whole ‘angel of light’ getup,” Crowley replied, gesturing to Aziraphale’s outfit. It was true, he did prefer to wear lighter colours; today’s choice was tan slacks, a light-blue button-up and a beige sweater.

“At least I don’t look like a Hell’s Angel,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Yep, real demon, that’s me. I’ll leave the angel-ing to you.”

Crowley had been fiddling around at the back of the bike, and now he held up another helmet. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Aziraphale said, the smile draining away from his face.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said, “It’s too far to walk and these are the only wheels I’ve got. Promise I’ll drive slow,” he added with a wink.

“Oh, I’m going to regret this,” Aziraphale muttered, as he took the helmet from Crowley and put it on his head. Crowley helped him tie the strap before motioning for him to get on the back.

“Hold on tight now, angel,” Crowley smirked, before flipping down his visor and starting the bike.

Next thing Aziraphale knew, they were shooting ahead at a speed that was probably illegal and definitely unnatural. He clung to Crowley as if his life depended on it – as far as he was concerned, it did.

A few minutes into the ride, Aziraphale started to get used to the feeling of the bike, the rush of the air and the way they leaned around the corners. He felt himself start to relax and enjoy the ride rather than just fearing for his safety. And that was its own kind of problem: with his mind no longer overwhelmed by the terror of imminent gruesome death, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he had his arms wrapped around an extremely attractive man.

Of course Crowley’s good looks hadn’t escaped his notice in the past week. Aziraphale wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t remotely straight either. He’d stolen his fair share of glances at Crowley’s expressive mouth, his graceful hands, his hips – good Lord, those hips; why did the man have to wear his trousers so blessedly tight?

But Aziraphale was a consummate professional, so he’d managed to relegate such thoughts to a hidden corner of his mind during working hours, and only let them out to play for a while once he got home at night. The rest of the time he managed to be strictly businesslike.

But now. Oh dear God, now he was on Crowley’s bike, arms wrapped around his wiry frame, and it was very nearly too much. Aziraphale felt oddly grateful for the full-face helmet; not only did it hide what was sure to be a first-class blush, but it also stopped him doing something ridiculous, like burying his face in the soft leather of Crowley’s jacket and inhaling deeply. He doubted he’d be able to blame that on his fear of motorcycles.

He spent the rest of the ride giving himself a stern mental talking to.

Thanks to Crowley’s demonic driving style, it didn’t take them long to reach the market. Aziraphale reluctantly let go of him.

“There we go,” Crowley said, taking off his helmet. “Safe and sound.”

“Barely,” Aziraphale muttered as he took off his own headgear.

“Oh, come now, it wasn’t that bad,” Crowley said with a chuckle, taking the helmets and securing them to the bike. He gave Aziraphale an amused look. “Just...” Crowley reached out and ruffled his hand through Aziraphale’s hair, mussing up the curls that had no doubt been flattened by the helmet. “There you go. Halo all fixed.”

“Demon,” Aziraphale muttered, ducking his head to hide his blush. He was well aware that he’d missed sounding exasperated by a mile. Crowley just grinned and started walking in the direction of the stalls.

They wandered around the market for a couple of hours, chatting to the stallholders, sniffing at unusual spices and tasting more curious foodstuffs than any reasonable person could keep track of. Every so often, Crowley would croon in delight, and a jar or bottle or box would make its way into his shopping bag.

“This would go perfectly with the poussins, don’t you think?” he’d ask, holding out a blob of something alarmingly red on a plastic spoon. Or, “Taste this! Orange and black pepper, who’d have thought, hey?” He was like a kid in a candy store, and it was absolutely endearing to watch.

They eventually got lunch from a dim sum vendor that Crowley proclaimed to be “out of this world.” The stall was run by a wizened old lady who didn’t seem to speak much English beyond “hello” and “thank you,” but the smells coming from her neatly stacked bamboo steamers were mouthwatering. Aziraphale watched in amusement as Crowley managed to place their order using a combination of hand gestures and a few broken words of what was presumably Chinese.

They took their bounty to a picnic table; one benefit of coming midweek was that there was actually a space to sit and eat.

“What’s in this, then,” Aziraphale asked, prodding at one of the dough-wrapped bundles.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Crowley said with a carefree smile. “I just asked for two of everything. I’m afraid it’s always a bit of a gamble if one of the kids aren’t here, but I’ve never had anything here that wasn’t good.”

“How exciting,” Aziraphale remarked, picking up one of the parcels with his disposable chopsticks. “ _Bon appetit!_ ”

Lunch turned into a guessing game of what each parcel was filled with. Some of them were fairly easy, like the pork _bao_ and the decidedly non-traditional spinach-and-cream-cheese dumpling. Others were a bit more challenging, and on two of them they couldn’t agree at all – for one, they couldn’t agree on whether it was minced prawn or crab; for the other, the disagreement centred around cabbage or _pak choi_.

“Tell you what,” Crowley said. “We’ll go ask the lady, and she’ll settle this. Then we’ll finally know who has the superior palate.”

“Shall we place a bet, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. “Loser has to cook a meal for the winner?”

“Sure, Angel,” Crowley replied easily. “Prepare to start planning your menu.”

It took a lot of pointing at photos and using Google translate, but they finally got their answers from the old lady. In the end, it was a bit of an anti-climax: they each won one round.

“Where does that leave our bet, then?” Crowley asked.

“We’ll just have to have a rematch, I guess,” Aziraphale said with a twinkle in his eye. Oh, he had something to prove now!

\--

It was late afternoon by the time they finally decided to go back. And wasn’t that a thing: they’d somehow managed to spend almost the entire day together, never once getting bored of each other’s company.

“Drop you off at home?” Crowley asked when they were ready to leave, and yes, perhaps some small part of his mind hoped that Aziraphale lived some distance away so that the ride could last a bit longer. It was almost like a hug, having Aziraphale ride behind him and he wasn’t so noble that he wouldn’t bask in it. \Besides, no-one could prove that he took the corners a bit more wildly than usual to make Aziraphale cling on tighter.

To his surprise, though, Aziraphale lived only a couple of blocks from the restaurant. So, not a longer ride then, but now he knew where the angel lived.

And then he wanted to kick himself for that thought. What did it matter if he knew where the man’s flat was? It’s not like he was going to visit him there. They were co-workers, maybe possibly something that could look like friends if you squinted, but that was it. Don’t even bother entertaining that thought.

“Bye then,” he said, as he dropped Aziraphale off. “See you tomorrow,”

“Goodbye, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, smiling that smile that made Crowley feel all warm and gooey inside. “Thank you for inviting me along today. It was very enjoyable.”

“Anytime, angel,” Crowley said, hoping that Aziraphale would catch the implication that it was an open invitation, that they could do this again. “I had fun too.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”

_Give me a hug!_ Crowley broadcast with all the psychic abilities at his disposal. Yes, he’d had Aziraphale’s arms around him all the way home, but he was a greedy thing. And it wasn’t the same, he couldn’t bury his nose in those blonde curls, again smashed comically flat by the helmet.

It didn’t work of course. Aziraphale just turned away and made his way into the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm, dim sum...


	5. Blueberry muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild Warlock appears...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone - I am SO sorry for not updating on the weekend! We went away for a mini holiday and I completely forgot to mention it, oops. But I'm back, and here's a nice long chapter to make up for it 😁

Of course, life has a way of screwing with the best laid plans of even a pair of obliviously pining superstar chefs.

It happened on Tuesday night, somewhere in the middle of the dinner service, when Aziraphale’s mobile started buzzing insistently. Of course, it was in the pocket of his coat, which was lying abandoned in the office, so he didn’t even know.

Buzz-buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz. And so on, for a total of three calls left to go to voicemail.

The first clue Aziraphale got that something wasn’t right was when Beez burst into the kitchen.

“Aziraphale?” They called out. “Phone call for you.”

“Oh bother, now’s not a good time,” Aziraphale replied, juggling a couple of pans. “Can’t you take a message?”

“They say it’s an emergency,” Beez answered, and the look on their face caused Aziraphale to pause.

“All right, then, I’ll take it in the office,” he said, handing off his work to one of the cooks. Crowley shot him a questioning look, but he just shrugged; he had no idea what it was about.

Aziraphale picked up the phone in the little office off the kitchen, the one where Crowley did such paperwork as he couldn’t leave to anyone else.

“Aziraphale Fell,” he answered, still annoyed at having his work interrupted.

“Hello, Mr Fell,” came a voice from the other side. “I’m phoning from The Royal London Hospital. It’s in regard to Ms Harriet Dowling.”

Aziraphale felt an icy weight settle in his chest. “Is she okay?” he managed to croak out.

Harriet was his little sister; she and her twelve-year-old son made up the sum total of all the family he had in this world. If something had happened to them...

“She was in a car accident,” the voice continued.

“Oh, God!” Aziraphale placed a hand over his mouth.

“She’s in surgery at the moment,” the nurse continued, far too calm for Aziraphale’s inner turmoil. “We’re doing what we can for her, although I don’t have any more information that that at this moment. I’m actually calling about her son.”

“Oh, Lord, no... Was he in the car too?” Aziraphale could hear how panicked his own voice sounded.

“Yes, he was, but by some miracle he’s unharmed, save for some scrapes and bruises. The driver’s side took the worst of it. Mostly, he’s just shaken and scared.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Aziraphale sighed. He was seized by a sudden need to go to them, to see with his own two eyes that they were all right and to wrap them up in a protective hug and never, ever let them go again.

“I’m coming over as soon as I can. Where can I find them?” Aziraphale searched around on the desk for a slip of paper and a pen, scribbling down the name of the nurse he was talking to and the ward number – he knew better than to trust his memory when he was in such a state. After hanging up, he steadied himself on the edge of the desk, taking a few calming breaths.

Only when he turned around did he realise that Beez was standing in the door of the office, regarding him with their eyebrows raised quizzically.

“My sister is in hospital,” he explained. “And her son. Car accident. Please, I have to go.”

Beez, bless their soul, didn’t ask for any more explanations, just nodded.

“I’ll tell Crowley,” they said. “Phone me tomorrow.”

Aziraphale nodded gratefully, swopped his chef’s whites for his coat, and made for the door.

The cab ride to the hospital gave him far too much time to think, to fuss and worry and work himself up into a tightly wound ball of nerves. If something happened to Harriet... no, he couldn’t even think of it. She was his baby sister, a decade his junior, and from the day she was born Aziraphale had declared himself her protector. If only he’d been able to protect her from Tad.

Thaddeus Dowling, a flashy American diplomat about Aziraphale’s age, had swept Harriet off her feet, but he’d made Aziraphale’s skin crawl from their first meeting. His sister, of course, would hear none of it – she was young and full of romantic notions, ridiculously infatuated with the smooth-talking older man. They got married after a whirlwind romance, and for a while, things really did seem to be going well. Aziraphale was ready to concede that he may have misjudged Tad.

Then came the pregnancy. Unplanned, but not unwelcome, at least on Harriet’s part; Tad had other ideas on the matter. She tried, though; tried so hard to save her marriage, to get her husband to fall in love with their son as deeply as she had. She was determined to give the boy a happy home.

Then she found out about the mistresses. Plural. All bright, young things, like she had been when she first caught his eye. And that was the last straw. The divorce was finalised mere months later, and Tad had disappeared back off to America like the dog he was. Good riddance, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

Harriet was a tough cookie; no philandering jerk would get her down. She raised Warlock (he never could get her to explain how they chose the boy’s name) by herself, doing the best she could with what she had. Aziraphale admired her endlessly for it. Harriet had appointed him as Warlock’s godfather, but he honestly didn’t think he’d be able to do what she did.

Aziraphale and his godson weren’t close, unfortunately; if there was one thing he regretted about his years in Paris, it was that he’d missed most of Warlock’s childhood. He was doing his best to reconnect with the boy now, but Warlock was just entering that first bout of adolescent surliness, and it was an uphill battle. Still, they were family, and Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of abandoning them.

God, he hoped Harriet would be okay.

They finally arrived at the hospital, and Aziraphale tracked down the nurse he’d spoken to on the phone. He learned that Harriet was still in surgery; they’d had to insert a chest drain to remove blood from around her lung and now they were repairing a bowel perforation. No, they didn’t have any more information at this time. Yes, they would inform him as soon as they knew more.

With that avenue exhausted, the nurse showed him to Warlock’s room. The boy seemed to be asleep at first, but he looked up as they entered the room. His eyes grew wide when he saw Aziraphale.

“Zira?” he said in a quavering voice. “Why... Where’s mom? Is she-?“

“Oh, no, no dear boy,” Azirpahale rushed to reassure him. “She’s just in surgery. But perfectly, erm, alive.”

“Oh. Good.” Warlock slumped back against his pillow. After a few moments he spoke again. “Why are you here?”

“I came to see if you’re all right,” Aziraphale answered. “And, well... I suppose, if your mom needs to stay in hospital for a few days, then you’ll have to come home with me.”

Warlock fixed him with a look for a several moments before grunting something indecipherable and lying down, turning his back on Aziraphale. He drew the blanket up over his head and buried his face in the pillow.

At a loss for what else to do, Aziraphale made his way around to the chair on the other side of the bed and just... sat there. Trying to force the last hour or so of his life to make sense.

After a few moments, Warlock’s hand emerged from under the blanket and flailed around blindly. Aziraphale instinctively caught it in his own, and felt slender fingers tighten around the side of his palm. The sat like that in silence, Azirpahale rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on the back of his nephew’s hand, trying to impart a comfort that he himself did not feel. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the boy’s hand go limp as sleep finally overtook him.

He did not let go.

After what felt like an eternity, the nurse finally reappeared, this time bringing good news: Harriet was out of theatre, the surgery had gone well and she was stable in recovery. She would have to stay in hospital for at least a week, though. Warlock could go home tomorrow, as soon as the doctor had seen him; Aziraphale could come at eight if he wanted to speak to any of the doctors.

Aziraphale thanked the nurse through a haze of exhaustion, genuinely grateful for this kind person who’d helped him navigate a disaster of a night. He got a cab back to his flat, stripped down to his boxers and slipped into bed, unable to even muster up the energy to put on his pyjamas, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was only the next morning that it occurred to him to check his mobile. He found several missed calls and a number of increasingly worried text messages, all from Crowley. _Please angel, I’m worried sick,_ the last one read. _Text me and let me know you’re okay, no matter how late you get this_. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to make of Crowley’s obvious concern, of his casual use of the nickname from yesterday (well, two days ago now), but it felt warm and nice, and as he hit the button to dial Crowley’s number, he found himself smiling for the first time since he’d answered that phone call last night.

\---

Crowley, for his part, had not had a good night either. Aziraphale’s departure from the kitchen had heralded the arrival of the kind of chaos last seen shortly before the creation of the heavens and earth. It was an absolute nightmare, having to keep everything going by himself. The fact that his kitchen had functioned perfectly well without Aziraphale for years before was irrelevant; somehow, in the space of a single week, he’d come to rely entirely on the other chef’s calming presence. He missed Aziraphale’s soft classical music and softer smiles, he missed the way he could defuse any impending disaster with a few well-chosen words. God, he missed the lack of yelling. His staff had an even harder time dealing with him now that they’d had a taste of someone better.

But more than anything, Crowley was worried. He’d tried to contact Aziraphale all night, calling and texting, but to no avail. Beez wasn’t much help; the idiot hadn’t even thought to ask what hospital Aziraphale had gone to. He’d even stopped at Aziraphale’s flat on his way home, but he had still been out. All Crowley could do was call, and text, and worry.

Therefore, it was a great relief when he was woken up by his phone ringing early on Wednesday morning. Normally, such a rude awakening at such an early hour would result in the phone being tossed across the room, but a glimpse of Aziraphale’s name on the screen woke him up faster than a quad espresso.

“Hey, Angel,” he answered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied. “I just thought a phone call would be easier than typing out the whole long story on my phone. I hate these silly little touch-screen keyboards.”

“Of course you do,” Crowley said with a chuckle. “So what happened last night?”

Crowley got up and went to make himself a cup of coffee, listening to Aziraphale speak as the machine hissed and spluttered and eventually produced a strong, dark cup of liquid sanity.

“So you have to look after the kid?” he asked after the first scalding sip. “That’s gonna be fun.”

“Yes, I have no idea what to do with him,” Aziraphale said, sounding distressed. “He can probably go back to school in a day or two, but what do I do in the evenings? Do you know where I can get a babysitter? I’d hate to have to take time off and leave you all in the lurch.”

“Relax, Angel,” Crowley said reassuringly. “We managed before you came along, we can do it again for a few days.”

“Yes, but what if it isn’t just a few days?” Aziraphale countered. “Lord knows how long Harriet will be in the hospital for. I can’t very well take weeks and weeks off.”

“I suppose,” Crowley said, thoughtfully, “You could always bring him along. I mean, we could set up a space for him somewhere, to watch movies or do homework or sleep or whatever.”

“Really?” Aziraphale said, relief palpable in his voice. “Do you think Beez would allow that?”

“Leave it to me,” Crowley answered. “I’ll sort it out with them. You just go get your nephew, and let me know when you’re ready to come back, okay?”

“Oh, thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Truly, you are a lifesaver. I’ll stop by the restaurant to talk to you and Beez once I’ve picked Warlock up.”

“Warlock?” Crowley asked, amused. It was the first time Aziraphale had mentioned the boy’s name.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale said. “Goodness knows what his parents were thinking. Best not to speculate. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t poke fun at him. He’s moody enough as it is.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley said innocently.

“Good. I’ll see you later, then?”

“See you, Angel.”

Crowley decided that since he was up already, he might as well get dressed and go in early. He had some orders to place and a bit of admin to catch up on. He firmly told himself that it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he wanted to be sure to be there when Aziraphale came around. Nope, strictly business.

Although, speaking of. He pulled out his phone again and selected Beez’s number.

“Hey, Beez?” he said. “Remember how the mood in the kitchen went straight down the crapper when Aziraphale left last night? Yeah, well, he needs a favour...”

\---

Warlock was not a happy kid. Besides the fact that his mom was in hospital – and that’s a pretty big _besides_ – he had to stay with his uncle until she got better. Not that he didn’t like Zira, the guy was nice enough, but he was... well, he was dull. He didn’t even have a TV, just piles and piles of dusty old books. Probably thought Netflix was a cinema complex or something. It was going to be a looooong couple of weeks, or however long until his mom got out.

Zira said they had to stop by the restaurant where he worked, and Warlock figured it would probably be more interesting than going back to the flat (not a high bar, that), so he didn’t protest.

They entered through the kitchen, which smelled tantalisingly like some sort of baked goods, and were met by a man that was Zira’s opposite in every imaginable way. Tall and skinny and dressed all in black, with an indefinable air of something coolness-adjacent about him.

“Warlock, this is Crowley,” Zira introduced him. “We work together.”

“Hey, Warlock,” Crowley said, holding out a hand for him to shake. Yeah, no, Warlock didn’t do handshakes, but he spent a few moments looking Crowley up and down.

“You have a tattoo on your face,” was what he finally got stuck on..

“Yeah,” Crowley said, turning to show off the little snake that curled under his right sideburn.

Warlock studied it for a few moments before reaching a verdict. “Cool. Do you have any others?”

“Well, now, that’s for me to know and your uncle to find out,” Crowley said with a grin and a wink.

Zira blushed crimson, and Warlock burst out laughing. Oh yes, he definitely liked this guy.

Crowley conjured up some blueberry muffins out of one of the ovens, which Warlock devoured with the appetite of a growing boy who’d had to endure a hospital breakfast. He listened as the two adults discussed Zira’s plans for returning to work.

“You can come back tonight, if you want,” Warlock offered. “I don’t mind. I mean, I might as well hang out here as at your flat, right?” He didn’t say it out loud, but he rather suspected that Crowley would be far better company that Zira, even when he was working.

And so, Aziraphale was back on the job that very night, Warlock in tow. He was shown to Beez’s office, where they had set up their laptop with Netflix for him (at least his uncle’s boss was living in the 21st century), but he opted to hang out in the kitchen. It would be an interesting educational experience, or so he claimed; his real reasons sticking around were altogether more devious.

See, the thing people often didn’t realise about Warlock was that he was smart. They didn’t look any further than his withdrawn (or, as they called it, sullen) manner, and didn’t realise that he was watching the world keenly, piecing things together in his mind. Warlock saw and understood far more than anyone realised.

And what he had seen, within minutes of meeting Crowley, was that the man was absolutely besotted with his uncle. Nauseatingly so. And a few careful questions had led him to believe that Zira returned the sentiment. But like all adults, they were being idiots about it. Warlock had sighed, with all the exasperation of a twelve-year-old faced with the idiocy of his supposed betters, and decided that he would have to give them a bit of a nudge. Zira deserved to be happy, after all, and Crowley seemed like a nice guy.

He sat on a stool next to Crowley as he was chopping some green stuff Warlock couldn’t be bothered to examine more closely.

“So, you like Uncle Zira?” he asked, innocently.

Crowley gave him a suspicious sideways glance. “He’s alright, yeah. We’re... friends, I guess.”

“Just friends?”

“You’re a nosy little bugger, aren’t you?” Crowley gave him a scowl.

Warlock just shrugged. “Well?”

“We barely know each other, kid. Only met about a week ago.”

Warlock gave him a sly glance. “He definitely likes you, though. _Likes_ likes you.”

“Fuck!” Crowley dropped the bunch of leaves he’d been holding and stuck his finger in his mouth. “Cut myself, you bastard,” he mumbled.

Warlock felt bad about that, but only a little. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you knew.”

Crowley just gave him a _look_ , and scurried off, presumably to go look for a plaster.

Warlock grinned to himself. Oh yes, Crowley was _so_ interested. He retreated to Beez’s office to continue plotting.


	6. Sushi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock continues to meddle, with mixed results.

“The restaurant is closed on Mondays, right?” Warlock asked as they were walking to the restaurant on Saturday morning. Aziraphale hummed in affirmation.

“So you guys have Monday evening off?” he continued. His expression could be described as suspiciously innocent – the sort that is trying and failing to cover up a whole world of mischievous intentions.

“We do,” Aziraphale conceded carefully, “But you, young man, are going back to school on Monday. Don’t even think of trying to worm out of it!”

“I know, I know,” Warlock said, “But I was thinking, we should invite Crowley over for supper. It’ll be fun!”

“Oh. Well. I suppose...” Aziraphale said hesitantly. He was doing some very quick mental tallying of pros and cons. While he would love to spend the evening with Crowley – and he was sure Warlock would enjoy it too – he wasn’t sure if he wanted Crowley in his home, attaching the image of himself to the space that Aziraphale lived in every day. It certainly wouldn’t do his stupid, pining heart any favours.

Of course, Warlock chose not to pick up on his uncle’s hesitancy. “Hey, Crowley!” he called out as soon as they entered the kitchen. “Wanna come over to Zira’s for supper on Monday?”

“Sure,” Crowley agreed easily. “What’s the occasion?”

“Hmm. Me going back to school?” Warlock suggested.

“It was barely a week, Hellspawn,” Crowley laughed.

He turned to Aziraphale. “So, what’re we having? Can I bring anything?”

Aziraphale felt a bit disoriented at the speed with which things were happening, so he just managed to answer, “To be honest, I usually eat out on a Monday. It’s the one day of the week I don’t have to cook.”

“That settles it, then,” Crowley grinned. “I’m cooking, Warlock will be my sous chef, and you’re taking the night off. Now, how do you feel about sushi?”

\---

True to his word, Crowley arrived early Monday evening, weighed down by a cooler bag and a couple of fabric shopping bags. Heaven knew how he transported all that on his motorcycle.

Aziraphale tried to insist on helping, but he was given a glass of wine and firmly evicted from the kitchen, so he conceded defeat and settled in on the couch with a book. He lost himself in the novel, only dimly aware of the sounds of Crowley and Warlock working in the kitchen, one or the other occasionally bursting into laughter. It all seemed strangely... right.

After what felt like a few minutes (but which was in fact, according to his watch, well over an hour), Warlock emerged from the kitchen.

“Zira, you have to go to your room so that we can set the table” he declared.

“Aren’t we eating in the kitchen?” Aziraphale asked, confused. He only had the one dining table, and it certainly wasn’t out here.

“Nope,” Warlock said, popping the p. “Crowley says we’re doing this properly. Go!”

Aziraphale relented with a smile and decamped to his bedroom.

When he emerged again half an hour later (with Warlock’s permission), it was like stepping into a different room. The coffee table had been repurposed as a dining table; couch cushions pressed into service as seats on the floor. Every flat surface sported candles floating in water – it looked as if every glass bowl and dish he owned had been pressed into service. The table was set with delicate china dipping bowls (definitely not his; he assumed Crowley brought them) and lacquered black chopsticks (ditto). He picked one up and twirled it between his fingers, noting the wonderful smooth texture; on closer inspection, the wider end was decorated with delicate golden vines and red flowers.

“Those are the real thing,” Crowley piped up from behind him. “Brought them over from Japan myself.”

“Oh, you’ve been to Japan?” Aziraphale asked. He’d always wanted to go.

“Yeah, years ago. Where d’you think I learned to make sushi?”

“Oh, yes, this alleged sushi you keep bragging about,” Aziraphale teased. “I’m waiting with bated breath.”

“Well, wait no more. If you would kindly take your seat, my sous chef will serve the first course.”

\---

“I must admit, my dear, that was one of the better sushi dinners I’ve had in my life – and I’ve had plenty, believe me.” Aziraphale was smiling at him fondly, and Crowley preened at the praise. He’d taken a chance on including some of his more unusual dishes, and it seemed to have paid off.

“Glad you liked it, angel,” he said. 

“That dessert roll,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “I mean, strawberries and honey with fried tofu, who’d have guessed.”

Crowley beamed. “Not done yet,” he said, placing the glass teapot he’d brough on the table. “Watch this.”

He produced what looked like a rather unimpressive ball of dead leaves and dropped it into the pot. Crowley wasn’t a big tea drinker, but he’d been enamoured with the sheer beauty of flowering teas from the first time he saw one. And, okay, he was a bit of a drama queen; he felt the theatricality of it rather suited him.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t looking at the tea – he was staring straight through the pot at Aziraphale’s face as he watched the petals gently unfurling in the hot water.

Aziraphale was transfixed, smiling faintly, looking almost ethereal in the dim light and so, so damn beautiful.

“ _I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat,_ ” Aziraphale murmured absently, as if talking to himself.

Crowley interrogated him memory for a moment, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when the line finally clicked into place.

“You know Cohen?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale smiled happily. “He’s one of the great poets of our time, without a doubt.”

“Huh,” Crowley said speculatively. “Would have pegged you more as a Chopin-and-Shakespeare kind of guy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his phone, “but…”

Crowley grinned as Cohen’s husky voice sounded from Aziraphale’s phone.

_‘You came to me this morning, and you handled me like meat. You'd have to be a man to know how good that feels, how sweet’_

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at that line. “Clearly our Mr Cohen has never seen a butcher at work,” he opined.

“And clearly you’ve never seen me working a dry rub into a beef roast,” Aziraphale retorted with a mischievous smile.

Several images flashed through Crowley’s mind in quick succession, of Aziraphale’s hands massaging a side of meat, fingers slick with olive oil and scented with cumin and thyme. And then, it wasn’t meat and olive oil anymore, but…

He swallowed uncomfortably. Well, fuck.

“Crowley, are you okay?” Azirpahale interrupted his daydream. “You look a little… well, glazed.”

“Yeah, fine,” Crowley stuttered, fighting to maintain his composure. “Just, er, tea? Yeah. Time for tea. Here…”

He reached over and grabbed the pot, hissed as he burned himself – _use the handle, halfwit!_ – and grimaced as he sucked on his fingertips. Great, just great. Real fucking smooth, Crowley.

Aziraphale just laughed that tinkling laugh of his and poured them each a cup.

They sat there for goodness-knew-how-long, chatting happily as the overstuffed couch gradually swallowed them and the teapot emptied between them. Leonard Cohen was still crooning softly in the background and Crowley could feel himself relaxing, already dreading the moment when he would have to get up and leave.

Azirpahale put his cup on the table, the tea finally finished, and settled back in his seat contentedly.

“This was nice,” he sighed happily.

“Nice? _Niiiiice?_ ” Crowley drew out the word sarcastically; earlier that week, he’d been treated to a ten-minute diatribe on why _nice_ was the most insipid word in the English language.

Azirpahale swatted him on the arm playfully. “You know what I mean, you fiend.” His eyes softened, and his hand rested briefly on Crowley’s arm. “Thank you for tonight – the food and the company. It really was rather lo-“ He interrupted himself with a massive yawn that he couldn’t stifle in time.

Crowley looked at his watch and started – shit, it was after midnight!

“Getting late,” he said. “I’d better be off.”

“My goodness, where’s the time gone,” Azirpahale remarked. “You must be exhausted! Go on home, you can come pick up your other things tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, relieved that he wouldn’t have to go through the whole palaver of packing up just now. “That’s perfect. Just need my…” he looked around for his jacket, finally spotting it on the other side of the couch. He leaned over to grab it, leaning over Azirpahale at a rather awkward angle – a fact he only realised when he looked up to see that they were almost nose-to-nose. His eyes found Aziraphale’s, and for some reason he couldn’t look away.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was a little squeaky, for some reason.

“Azirpahale,” he retorted, unable to formulate anything more coherent.

“What are you doing?”

“Um… you’re sitting on my jacket?”

“Oh. So I am,” Aziraphale looked down at the jacket, but didn’t make any move to get up or free it.

“So. Um. Get up?”

“Or what?” Azirpahale challenged, and _fuck_ he was cute up close, with his little smile and his twinkling eyes.

“Or I’ll kiss you.” The words were out before he could stop them.

Azirpahale raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Oh yes?”

“Try me,” Crowley warned.

Azirpahale didn’t flinch, just held his gaze and very deliberately wriggled down in his seat more firmly.

And well, fuck, that was all the permission Crowley needed to lean over those last few centimetres and press their lips together.

Aziraphale tasted of tea, and sweetness, and something undefinable that Crowley suspected he’d never be able to name, but it was delicious all the same. He could see himself getting addicted. It was warmth and light and beauty, joy and desperation, and... fuck, okay, maybe he’d overdone the sake a bit, he was getting nauseatingly saccharine. But one thing was certain: kissing Aziraphale might just be his new all-time favourite activity.

Far too soon, Aziraphale pulled away.

“What are we doing?” he whispered, eyes wide.

“Kissing?” Crowley offered.

“We can’t do that,” Aziraphale breathed, eyed wide.

“I don’t know, I thought we were doing it rather well,” Crowley joked, but he could feel his heart sinking already. Damn it all, he should have known.

“We work together, Crowley, I’m your boss, for heaven’s sake. Well, on paper at least,” he amended when he caught sight of Crowley’s scowl. “Surely you see the problem?”

“What problem?” Crowley argued. “We’re both adults, there’s no rule against it.”

“Still. It would make things... complicated. And what would Beez say?”

“Angel, with all due respect, I don’t give a flying fuck what Beez says. But,” he raised his hands in surrender, “if this is something you’d like to give a try, I’ll talk to them, make sure they’re okay with it.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale dithered, wringing his hands. “It all seems rather... No. No, let’s no ruin a good thing. We’ll just pretend none of this happened, okay?”

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Whatever you want, Angel,” he said.

“Thank you. Here.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s jacket free and handed it to him.

Crowley knew when he was being dismissed, so he stood up, shrugged on his jacket, grabbed his keys and helmet.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he said as he left, barely hearing Aziraphale’s greeting over the cursing in his head. Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ How was he supposed to go back to normal now?

He still didn’t have an answer by the time he finally fell asleep, except to know one thing: working together or no, if he was going to keep his heart in one piece, he’d have to stay as far away from Aziraphale as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to Leonard Cohen's recitation [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtsP8PEjdps). In fact, listen to the whole Live in London show while you're at it.
> 
> I apologise for any sushi cravings I may have caused.


	7. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two idiots finally learn to deal with their feelings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, you all were pretty pissed at Aziraphale after the last chapter. May I offer this to make up for it?

The days following the sushi incident (as Aziraphale had taken to calling it in his mind) were a mess of tangled emotions and awkwardness in the kitchen. Their previous easy rapport had been replaced with a stilted professionalism, a cold distance that Aziraphale hated even though he had put it there himself. He missed Crowley’s sharp wit and his casual flirting (so much more noticeable now that it was gone); he even missed his temper tantrums.

And the most infuriating thing was how Crowley managed to keep him at a careful arm’s length and still look so _infuriatingly_ sexy while doing it. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to press him up against the nearest wall and kiss him until this stupid mask of indifference cracked into a thousand tiny pieces. He was constantly at war with his own mind, reminding himself exactly why he shouldn’t, couldn’t let there be anything between them.

More often than he cared to admit, the reasons eluded him.

“What’s up with you and Crowley?” Warlock asked.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale answered curtly, not really wanting to talk about it.

“Don’t lie. You’re both weird with each other all of a sudden. Like you’re fighting.”

“No, no, we’re not fighting,” Aziraphale reassured him. “We just... oh, I don’t know. Something happened, and now we have to deal with it, and it’s just taking us a little time to figure it out. Nothing for you to be concerned about, okay?”

Warlock gave him one of those knowing looks of his. “You guys really are idiots, you know?” he finally said, shaking his head, before wandering off to go chat to Crowley.

At the end of the week, Harriet was discharged from the hospital. She still wasn’t quite up to full strength, so Aziraphale insisted that she stay with him for a while. This meant that on Saturday he showed up at the restaurant alone, Warlock staying at home to look after his mother.

“Where’s the hellspawn?” Crowley asked when he saw this.

“He’s at the flat with his mother, she was released from hospital this morning.”

“Huh,” Crowley looked a little put out. “I’m gonna miss the little bugger.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale found that he agreed.

Saturday’s dinner service was, like always, a madhouse. There wasn’t time to worry about Warlock or Harriet or stolen kisses on his living room couch and the hole they left in his heart; all they could do was cook and plate and garnish and endless parade of orders. Aziraphale loved it, the sheer adrenaline rush of a busy restaurant, and he took pride in every perfect plate of food that left their kitchen. The exhaustion only caught up with him once they’d waved goodbye to the last cook, and only him and Crowley remained. Since he didn’t have to get Warlock to bed, he could linger after closing for the first time in almost two weeks.

“I’m knackered,” Aziraphale said as he stifled a yawn. “Remind me why we do this again?”

“Oh, come off it, you love it,” Crowley teased.

“I do,” Aziraphale said with a small smile. “It’s just that sometimes I wonder why.”

“Why does anyone love anything?” Crowley said with a small shrug. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Aziraphale paused for a moment to let that thought settle. A long-forgotten quote surfaced from somewhere in the depths of his memory, hammered in there by years of Sunday school (and one particularly insistent youth pastor who tried to explain to him why he couldn’t possibly _really_ be in love with a boy).

“ _The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can understand it?_ ” he murmured, half to himself.

“Well, aren’t you captain cheerful,” Crowley said drily.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale shrugged noncommittally.

“Okay, I can do gloomy-yet-appropriate Bible quotes,” Crowley retorted. “How about this one: _Hope deferred makes the heart sick_.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Is this about Monday night?” he asked.

“I don’t know, is it?” Crowley retorted irritably. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he supposed. They hadn’t really talked about the kiss; they were just sort of pretending it hadn’t happened. Which was what he wanted, of course... Except it _had_ happened, and it had messed up everything.

“I don’t like this,” Aziraphale admitted. “This whole week has been weird and awkward and I hate it. I wish we could just be friends like before, but now...”

“Now what?” Crowley asked.

“Now... Now I’ve kissed you. And I can never again not know what that’s like.”

“Wow. That bad, huh?” Crowley joked, attempting to lighten the mood, but not quite managing to hide the hurt behind his smile.

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. “That good.”

“ _Hope deferred makes the heart sick,_ ” Crowley quoted again. “ _But a desire fulfilled is a tree of life._ ” He had moved around so that he was standing in front of Aziraphale. “Angel, my heart is sick. I’m sick with wanting you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Aziraphale said softly. _I shouldn’t_.

Crowley just gave his little one-shoulder shrug again. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he repeated his words from earlier.

Oh, bugger it all, Aziraphale thought. He couldn’t work like this, being awkward friends-yet-not with Crowley, it would drive him insane. So if he couldn’t do his job like this, he might as well give the other option a try. It couldn’t possibly make things worse.

“It does,” he said, leaning closer to Crowley. “It does. And it wants you.”

Slowly, giving Crowley more than enough time to turn away, he stood up on tiptoes to place a single, soft kiss on Crowley’s lips.

Crowley didn’t let him pull back, immediately bringing his hands up to the sides of Aziraphale’s face and holding him close, kissing him with such gentleness, such tender yearning, that Aziraphale’s chest ached with it. Oh, it was every bit as wonderful as he remembered.

“ _Desire fulfilled is a tree of life,_ ” Crowley murmured into his mouth.

They held each other close, kissing in their kitchen until they were breathless with the sheer joy of it.

Eventually, though, a bit of rationality reasserted itself. “I should get home,” Aziraphale said reluctantly. “Harriet, and Warlock...”

“Of course, Angel,” Crowley said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. If it’s not today already.”

“I’ll be in early,” Aziraphale said with a grin, and a last kiss, before making his way out of the kitchen. Crowley stood there for a good five minutes, grinning like a fool, before he got his things together and locked up. That night, he fell asleep with a smile on his lips, happier than he could remember being in a very long time.

\---

“What’s up with you?” Warlock asked the next morning, interrupting Aziraphale’s happy humming as he made himself a cup of tea. “You’re all... cheery.”

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale said, smiling faintly, but he didn’t offer any further comment. It wouldn’t do to let the kid know he’d been right about him and Crowley all along; he was quite smug enough as it was.

Of course, Warlock wasn’t so easily fooled. He cocked his head to one side and grinned knowingly.

“You finally worked things out with Crowley, huh?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t suppress a fond chuckle for his nephew.

“Yes, you little know-it-all, we did.”

“Cool,” Warlock said. “About fucking time too, we were all going crazy with your pining.”

“Watch your language, young man,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll tell your mother on you.”

“Tell me what?” a sleepy Harriet asked from the kitchen doorway.

“Zira has a boyfriend!” Warlock piped up before Aziraphale could say anything.

“Oh?” Harriet’s eyebrow’s shot up. “Would that be the man you work with?”

“You’re a terrible little gossip,” Aziraphale scowled at a cackling Warlock. “But yes, it’s Crowley, and no, he’s not my boyfriend, as such. We... just kissed.”

“Yeah, trust me,” Warlock interjected, “he’s your boyfriend. Or he will be, if you ask. I’ve never seen anyone quite so sappy. Except maybe for you, Zira.”

“Right, thank you,” Aziraphale said, flustered. “That’s quite enough of that. Go get your things and be off to school, you menace.”

“It’s good, though,” Harriet said once Warlock had left the room. “You look happy.”

Aziraphale spared a soft smile for his sister. “I am, thank you, my dear. I truly am.”

\---

Things went back to normal after that. Well, somewhat – at least, they were back to being their friendly, borderline flirty selves at work. They agreed to try and keep their relationship out of the kitchen during working hours, because if there were even the faintest possibility of a worktime snog, neither of them would be able to focus. The last thing they needed was for one of them to chop off a finger by accident.

Still, Aziraphale found himself following Crowley with his eyes as he worked. Come on, who could blame him? Crowley was as sexy as always, with those sinful hips swaying and his deft, clever fingers making Aziraphale imagine all sorts of things that were definitely not appropriate for the workplace. Yes, Crowley was as grumpy with the staff as always, but it seemed almost like an act now. Underneath it all he was glowing with a special sort of happiness – a happiness Aziraphale had put there. It thrilled him, every bit of it. Every secret smile, every lingering brush of fingers as they passed ingredients and utensils to each other, every smirk and cockily raised eyebrow when he caught Aziraphale looking (not staring, mind – he had manners, or so he told himself).

It was a delicious game they were playing, this teasing, give-and-take, and by the end of the night they were all but chasing the rest of the staff away so that they could finally have a moment to themselves.

“You are a fucking menace,” Crowley growled into Aziraphale’s mouth, one hand buried in his hair and the other gripping his arse. “Do you have any _idea_ what you look like, what you sound like every time you put something in your mouth?”

“You should talk,” Aziraphale gasped in retaliation. “Slinking around the kitchen like a walking fantasy in those bloody skin-tight jeans of yours, looking good enough to eat.”

Crowley made a whining noise in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, losing himself in the absolute perfection that was Crowley’s mouth.

“Oh fucking hell! Seriously?”

Crowley and Aziraphale jumped apart like two guilty schoolchildren at the sound of Beez’s voice from the doorway.

“Beez,” Aziraphale said nervously. “We, um... thought you were gone already.”

Crowley, on the other hand, just sneered at them. “Great timing, arsehole.”

Beez made a rude gesture at Crowley. “Didn’t take you two long, did it? Funny, people don’t usually take to this snake so quickly.”

“Oi, watch it!” Crowley said in mock offence. “I’m extremely charming, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course you are, dear,” Aziraphale said with just a hint of teasing. Then he turned to Beez.

“Beez, I’m sorry if...”

“Save it,” Beez held up a hand. ”Believe me when I say, I sincerely do not care or want to know about what you two get up to in your own time. Just don’t commit any health code violations in my kitchen.”

A number of such violations flashed through Aziraphale’s mind in an instant, and he felt his cheeks heat. Crowley seemed to be choking on his own spit.

“Goddammit, Beez, have mercy will you?” he spluttered.

“Never,” Beez scoffed. “And I’m serious. Keep it in your pants while you’re here. As for the rest, go nuts, just don’t break each other. Now scram, I wanna lock up.”

Crowley seemed to be so dazed by this, he complied without a word.

“Well. That went better than I expected,” Aziraphale said once they were outside.

“Yeah, I told you Beez would be cool with it,” Crowley said. “They’re a right pain in the arse sometimes, but they’re a good person deep down. Don’t tell them I said that, though.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Don’t worry my dear, the secret’s safe with me.”

Crowley smiled, and looked suddenly nervous. “Do you want to, I don’t know... come back to mine?”

Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to very much. But, “Better not. I still have guests at home.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley said. “Harriet and her hellspawn. Tell them hi for me.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale interrupted, remembering a conversation with his sister, “you should do that yourself. Harriet wants to meet you, and I suspect Warlock also misses you, though he’d never admit it.” They shared a smile at the ridiculousness of not-quite-teenage boys.

“Dinner on Monday, then?” Crowley suggested. “We can all go somewhere nice, give us both a break from cooking.”

“Sounds perfect, my dear.”

“It’s a date, then.” Crowley grinned. “Kiss goodnight?”

And of course, there was no way Aziraphale would refuse him that.

It dragged on exceptionally long for a simple goodnight kiss, and by the end of it Aziraphale was seriously reconsidering his refusal of Crowley’s offer to go home with him, but he forced himself to break away. The memory of Crowley’s lips, his wandering hands, the firmness of his body under Aziraphale’s fingers followed him all the way home and to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, no food in this one 😝 There's only one craving here, and it ain't for anything you can serve in a restaurant... 
> 
> (Dear Lord, I'm awful. I love it.)


	8. Sauce, chutney, marinade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Azirpahale have a little contest to see who has the superior palate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started out planning to write a bit of smut, and accidentally ended up with 2k of food porn. So, sorry, I guess? Or you're welcome? Idk, here it is either way, enjoy!

“So, Harriet and Warlock are going back home on Saturday,” Aziraphale announced out of the blue one day.

“Is that so?” Crowley said, curious to know where this was going. He’d met Harriet a couple of weeks ago, and actually found that he rather liked her. He could see where her son got his spirit from, at least.

“Yes, she says she wants to go back to life as usual. Which means I no longer have houseguests.” Aziraphale was smiling shyly.

“Oh. And what do you propose to do with this newfound freedom?” Crowley teased, as if he didn’t know exactly what he wanted Aziraphale to do.  
“Well, I do recall you offering to take me home a while back...” Aziraphale said suggestively.

“Hmm, so I did,” Crowley purred. “And that still sounds like an excellent idea. But, my lovely angel, you and I have a score to settle first.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion. “We do?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered. “If I recall correctly, we still had a little bet going about who had the better palate, before Warlock invaded your home and my kitchen.”

Aziraphale laughed his tinkling laugh. “You’re not going to let that rest, are you? he asked.

“Nnnnope,” Crowley said smugly. “So. Monday?”

“Fine, you fiend. My place?”

“No, here,” Crowley countered. “Neutral territory.”

Aziraphale just rolled his eyes. “Have it your way. Monday it is, then.”

\---

Monday it was, then.

Crowley wasn’t sure why he was so nervous, but he was. For some reason, he really wanted to win this tasting contest. Some weird mixture of competitiveness and a visceral need to impress this incredible man.

The rules were simple: each of them prepared three sauces, no more than five ingredients each, and they had to identify as many of those as possible while tasting blindfolded.

After a bit of bickering, they tossed a coin to decide who would go first. Aziraphale won, and moved around behind Crowley to blindfold him.

Fuck. Okay. Suddenly this seemed like a _terrible_ idea, being blindfolded by a man he desperately wanted to do all sort of unspeakable things to. His thoughts were racing off in decidedly non-food-related directions.

Deep breaths. He could do this.

“Open wide, my dear,” Aziraphale said, a gentle hand coming to rest on his chin.

_Focus,_ Crowley scolded himself. He took a deep sniff before opening his mouth, and then concentrated on the flavours on his tongue.

“Hmm. Coconut milk, chili. Ginger. Something citrussy – lemongrass, I’m guessing?”

Aziraphale hummed approvingly. “And?” he prompted.

“Hmmm. Savoury. Maybe soy sau- no, fish sauce. Is that it?”

“Spot on, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Now, my turn.”

Crowley took his turn blindfolding Aziraphale, seriously worried about how long he could keep this up for.

“Here goes, Angel,” he said, bringing a spoon up to Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Hmmm, that’s simply scrummy,” Aziraphale said, smiling around the mouthful.

“Well, of course it is,” Crowley said. “But the important question is, what do you taste?”

“Well, definitely tomato and cream. Garlic. Something meaty – bacon, or maybe pancetta? Yes, I think it’s pancetta. Am I right?”

“Prosciutto, actually,” Crowley said smugly.

“You _cooked_ prosciutto?” Aziraphale gasped in a scandalised tone. “You Philistine!”

“Got you, though, didn’t I?” Crowley smirked. “You’re still missing something, though.”

“Hmm, let me think.” Aziraphale’s mouth moved contemplatively, as if he was chasing the last traces of the sauce with his tongue. Crowley swallowed, hard.

“Ah, of course! Red wine!”

“Got, it, angel,” Crowley said, smiling. “Can’t have a tomato sauce without red wine, can you?”

“I absolutely agree,” Aziraphale said, pulling off the blindfold. “Which reminds me...” He walked over to his bag and pulled out a bottle. “Care for a drink?”

“Oh, dear God, yes,” Crowley said. “I’ll get the glasses.”

He snatched a couple of glasses from the bar while Aziraphale expertly pulled the cork – of course, he wouldn’t buy anything with a screw cap, fussy bastard that he was. Crowley, on the other hand, was a cheap date when it came to booze – if it had alcohol, he was in.

“Fuck, this stuff’s amazing,’” he admitted after the first sip. Maybe the price tag did make a difference.

Aziraphale just smiled and held the blindfold out to him. “Ready for round two?” he asked.

“Oh, I see what you’re up to,” Crowley teased, taking the blindfold. “Trying to get me sloshed so that I lose my wits and you can win the contest, yeah?”

“Oh pish tosh, I’ll match you glass for glass,” Aziraphale countered. “Unless you’re conceding defeat...?”

“Never!” Crowley protested. “I’m one up on you! Bring it on, Angel!”

Blindfold on, hand on chin, mouthful of sauce...

“Hmm, let’s see. Definitely cream and blue cheese – gorgonzola?” Crowley guessed. He did love a good gorgonzola sauce.

“Roquefort, actually, but it’s close enough. What else, though?”

“Bit of cayenne pepper, there’s a bit of bite to it. And something that tastes green – parsley, if I’m any judge. Oh, and garlic.”

“Hah,” Aziraphale said triumphantly. “Garlic chives, in fact. So we’re tied at one mistake each!”

Crowley took off his blindfold to see Aziraphale hiding a smile behind his hand.

“What?” he asked.

“You’ve got some sauce...” Aziraphale motioned. “Here, let me.”

He swept his thumb across Crowley’s chin, before popping it into his own mouth, sucking the sauce off with a moan. “Hmm, that really is good.”

Those lips. Those _sounds._ Surely Aziraphale was doing it on purpose, trying to distract him. Well, two could play at that game.

Aziraphale put on the blindfold again, and Crowley leaned over to adjust it, and then leaned over a bit further to catch Aziraphale’s lips in a quick kiss.

“Hmm, that is delicious,” Aziraphale said, “But not exactly a challenge, even if it does taste of heaven and happiness.”

Crowley chuckled. “Here it comes,” he said, bringing the spoon to Aziraphale’s mouth. He may have accidentally-on-purpose spilled a drop on his lower lip just so that he could watch Aziraphale’s tongue dart out to catch it.

Great, now he was sabotaging himself.

“Well, Angel? What do you say?”

“Mmm. Oh, this is interesting. Sour cream, yes? And herbs?”

“Well, yes. But the trick is, which herbs?” Crowley grinned to himself. Aziraphale would never get this one.

“Definitely something oniony, I’d say chives. Hint of parsley Also something licoricey. Fennel? Tarragon? One of those, at least.”

“Ooh, angel, you’re losing your touch,” Crowley smirked.

“Wait! I know!” Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed. “It’s chervil! That would explain both the parsley and the liquorice flavour. Right?”

“Damn, you’re way too clever,” Crowley huffed. “But there’s one more. Well hidden.”

“Is that so? Hmmm.” Aziraphale deliberated for a moment. “Dill?”

“Okay, now I’m impressed,” Crowley admitted. “Even I can barely taste the dill, and I know it’s there.”

“Oh. Well. If we’re being honest, I didn’t exactly taste it.” Aziraphale looked somewhere between sheepish and smug, which shouldn’t even be possible.” I just know how your mind works.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Crowley laughed. “You clever, beautiful bastard.” He pulled Aziraphale into a kiss, which lasted a good few minutes before they got their bearings again.

“Your turn,” Aziraphale eventually panted.

“No fair,” Crowley pouted. “Scrambling my brains like that before I have to use them.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m absolutely not,” Aziraphale grinned, giving Crowley a last peck. Now cover up and open up.”

The sauce was, surprisingly, sweet. “Ooh, fruit. That’s new. Bet this would go lovely with pork. Or no, duck; it would be perfect with duck.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Precisely. But what is it, oh clever one?”

“Hmm. Peach? Apple? No, somewhere in-between.” The taste was hovering just on the cusp of recognition, and then it hit him. “Ah, I know: plum!”

“And?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Bit of sugar, if I’m any judge. Lovely spices. Aniseed, and cumin, and cinnamon. Yes?”

“Star anise, actually, but close enough.” Aziraphale said. “But I didn’t count the sugar, so there’s one more thing.”

“Cheat,” Crowley admonished fondly. “Here, give me another bite.”

Aziraphale fed him another spoonful, and Crowley couldn’t help but moan at the taste. “We’re definitely putting this on the menu,” he said, stalling for time. Because he’d be damned, he couldn’t taste anything else. The sweetness of the fruit and flavour of the spices filled his mouth.

“Nope, sorry,” he had to admit eventually. “No clue. What am I missing?”

“Orange zest,” Aziraphale declared triumphantly.

Of course! Now that he knew it was there, he could pick out the tangy citrus notes, where before he’d thought they were just part of the plums’ flavour.

“Very clever, angel,” he said. “I wasn’t joking, though, I want this on the menu.”

And Aziraphale blushed so prettily at that praise, Crowley just had to kiss him. Thoroughly.

“Trying to incapacitate me, you fiend?” he huffed, smiling, when they eventually separated.

“Hmm, fair’s fair,” Crowley replied, slipping the blindfold back over Aziraphale’s eyes and stealing a last peck.

“This one’s a marinade,” Crowley said, as he grabbed a soup spoon. It was one of his favourite recipes, an orient-inspired blend of fresh coriander, lemon juice, soy sauce and honey. “Mind, it’s runny.”

Of course, Aziraphale managed to turn his head just as the spoon approached, leaving him with a streak of sauce across one cheek and chin. Crowley snorted a laugh; Aziraphale was such a careful, fussy eater, seeing him with food streaked across his face was unaccountably hilarious.

“Oh, goodness me!” Aziraphale exclaimed, reaching up to wipe away the sauce and just succeeding in spreading it even further. Crowley couldn’t stop his giggles.

“Well, don’t just sit there laughing,” Aziraphale pouted. “Help me.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s chin with one hand, spent about 0.7 seconds considering his options, and brought his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale gasped softly, but when he didn’t pull away, Crowley tentatively stuck his tongue out to lick the delicious savoury-sweet-sour sauce directly from his skin.

Aziraphale made a soft whimpering sound, and the next thing Crowley knew, he had hands fisted in his shirt, and was being pulled into a bruising kiss.

“You absolute _demon,_ ” Aziraphale panted between kisses. “Do. You. Have. _Any._ Idea?”

It was Crowley’s turn to whine, fingers tangling in Aziraphale’s soft hair, the sudden fire in his kiss setting his whole body alight. Aziraphale pulled him closer, closer, until Crowley was practically in his lap, not relinquishing his lips for a second.

“The things you do to me,” Aziraphale growled, kissing along his neck, driving Crowley to distraction. “The things I’ll do to _you_...”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley whined, his hands scrabbling on Aziraphale’s waist, desperately searching for skin. Why did he have to be so buttoned up, dammit?

Aziraphale, for his part, had easily worked his hands under Crowley’s t-shirt, and was stroking his back in a way that was sure to make Crowley combust any minute now.

“Crowley,” he murmured in his ear. “My dear, if you don’t take me home _right now,_ I believe I might do something Beez will not approve of in their restaurant.”

Crowley blinked, shocked at Aziraphale’s blatant propositioning. His brain went temporarily offline, seeing as most of his blood had been redirected, um, elsewhere.

He must have been silent for a bit too long, because Aziraphale pulled back, suddenly flustered. “I’m sorry, was that-“

Crowley didn’t let him finish, immediately claiming his mouth in another kiss.

“That’s perfect, angel. But I think your place is closest, yeah?”

“Probably,” Aziraphale conceded. “Regardless, I’m not getting on that bike of yours after you’ve had half a bottle of wine.”

“Bastard,” Crowley muttered fondly.

“You love it,” Aziraphale retorted. “Oh, and Crowley?” he added.

“Hmm?”

“Lemon, soy sauce, coriander and honey. I do believe you owe me dinner now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plum chutney is a real recipe, compliments of Jamie Oliver, and it is amazing. With pork or duck.  
> The marinade is my mom-in-law's invention and is the most delicious thing imaginable; we actually had it for supper tonight. (Marinated a whole fillet and cooked it slowly over the coals, hmmm. With braaibroodjies (toasted samies cooked on the fire) with feta and olives and green pepper and tomato... Okay, I'm gonna stop now before I get hungry all over again 😝)


	9. Coffee for after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's wrap it up, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, I'm sorry for how long this last chapter took! Life was just being extremely... life, and I had a hefty bout of writer's block to boot. But here it is at last, the end to this tale of sugar and spice 😋

Aziraphale woke up to something sharp poking him in one of his shoulder blades. He rolled over to investigate, still rather more than half asleep, and the sharp object grunted and shifted underneath him.

He focused bleary eyes on a familiar blur of auburn, belonging to a sleeping Crowley, sprawled out on his stomach with his face half buried in a pillow. Aziraphale carefully shifted away from the elbow that had awakened him so rudely, and took a moment to admire the work of art gracing his bed.

Crowley was... well, how to explain it? He was exactly as sexy as those blessed skinny trousers of his had suggested, that’s what he was. Aziraphale couldn’t help a smile at the memory of how they’d ended up here, and what an experience last night had been.

He surveyed what little he could see of Crowley’s face, and chuckled softly when his gaze fell on the little snake tattoo in front of his ear. Silly man, one single tattoo and it had to be on his face, of all places. Not that Aziraphale objected – he thought it rather suited Crowley’s whole wannabe-badboy aesthetic. But Aziraphale had remembered how Crowley’s hint to Warlock that there might be more ink lurking somewhere under his clothes, and last night Aziraphale had spent a great deal of time in an extremely enjoyable but ultimately fruitless search for further body art.

Aziraphale had issued a similar challenge in return, and Crowley had been almost speechless when he discovered the white inked wings on Aziraphale’s back. And then, of course, he’d crowed triumphantly that they confirmed his theory that Aziraphale was indeed an angel.

Aziraphale checked the time and sighed. They had to be at the restaurant in a little over an hour. He had honestly never been less keen to get up and go to work.

“Crowley,” he said softly, stroking his fingers softly up and down his back. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Crowley made a noise that sounded something like “Wstfgl?” and cracked open one eye, squinting to focus on Aziraphale’s face. One arm, the sharp-elbowed one, snaked around Aziraphale and pulled him close so that Crowley could bury his face in his chest.

“M’ning ‘ngel,” came Crowley’s muffled voice. “Wassa time?”

“Time to get going, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, kissing the top of Crowley’s head. “Work and all that.”

“Nooooo!” Crowley moaned theatrically, Gripping Aziraphale even tighter and snaking his legs around Aziraphale’s like some sort of serpent. “Don’t wanna. You’re warm and soft and I never want to leave this bed again.”

“You can come back anytime, darling,” Aziraphale said, and he absolutely one hundred percent meant it, but someone had to be the responsible adult in this situation, and it certainly wasn’t going to be Crowley. “For now, we have a kitchen to open. Much as I like the idea of staying in bed with you all day, I’d really rather not Beez come looking for us and find us here.”

“Way to kill the mood, Angel,” Crowley grumbled, finally unpeeling himself from Aziraphale. “Do I get coffee before you kick me out?” And then. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna have to go home, aren’t I? I don’t have clean clothes or anything.”

Halfway through the first cup of coffee, dressed in one of Aziraphale’s oversized fluffy dressing gowns, Crowley finally began to look a bit more alive.

“This coffee is terrible, angel,” he teased.

“I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale retorted primly, “but I can assure you that my tea is absolutely perfect.”

“I’ll have to get you some of the proper stuff,” Crowley mused.

“Hmm, you do that,” Aziraphale smiled, thrilled at the implication that there would be many more mornings like this one.

-

When Crowley arrived at the restaurant not an hour later, he handed Aziraphale one of his cloth shopping bags containing the promised coffee, as well as (to Aziraphale’s absolute delight) a spare change of clothes.

“So that I don’t have to waste my time going home next time,” he explained. “More time for sleeping. Or other bed-related activities,” he added with a saucy wink.

Aziraphale was sure he was blushing like a sunset.

-

There were, indeed, many more mornings like that one. Too many to count, in fact.

\---

It was still relatively early, and Aziraphale was in the pantry collecting ingredients for the day when he heard the tread of familiar footsteps approaching. His favourite pair of arms in the world curved around his waist, and a kiss was pressed to his neck.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Crowley murmured.

“We’re at work, you fiend,” Aziraphale scolded playfully, even as he turned around to return the embrace.

The rest of the kitchen staff didn’t officially know about their relationship yet, and they’d been keeping their hands to themselves at work. For four agonising weeks. It was torture of the sweetest kind, being around Crowley all day and not being able to touch him, much less press him up against the nearest surface and snog him breathless whenever the mood took him (which was often). On the other hand, the anticipation made the eventual reward so much sweeter, and Aziraphale relished the end of each night’s service when they could finally be alone.

They weren’t hiding their relationship, exactly, but they didn’t want to make things awkward for the rest of the kitchen, at least until they were certain that they would be a long-term thing.

Well. Aziraphale, for his part, was pretty certain. He wasn’t one to do things by halves, and if he thought about it for even a millisecond, he had to admit that neither was Crowley. Eventually, he supposed, everyone would have to deal with it.

At the moment, though, Aziraphale wasn’t thinking about any of this. His thoughts were entirely occupied with how delicious Crowley tasted, how good his hands felt on his arse, and what he was going to do to him tonight the moment they were alone.

He moaned as Crowley pressed their hips together, vaguely aware that he was approaching ‘inappropriate at work’ with alarming speed (and noting that he wasn’t the only one), and finding it increasingly difficult to give a damn. There were hot lips on his neck, and cool fingers worming their way under his shirt, and it was just so very hard to care about anything else in that moment.

He really, really should have known better.

“Um,” came a startled voice from the door. Crowley and Aziraphale sprang apart as if they’d been burned. One of the cooks was standing at the entrance to the pantry, a look of utter shock on his face. Behind him, another cook was clapping her hands together and squealing.

Aziraphale nervously straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “Well, that’s the cat out of the bag, then,” he murmured.

A small crowd was congregating outside the pantry, kitchen staff and servers alike stopping to see what the two cooks were so surprised about. They must have been kissing for longer than they’d realised, if so many people were in already.

Aziraphale made a decision and smiled at Crowley, holding out his hand. Crowley took it, intertwining their fingers, and led him out of the pantry.

“Well,” he started, addressing the onlookers. “Since you’ve been such a nosy little bugger,” he spared a glare for the unfortunate cook that had interrupted them, “we might as well just tell you lot that we’re dating. No, this doesn’t change a single damn thing, I expect you all to perform the way you always have. _Capiche_?” He glowered at the group.

There were a few bewildered nods, and a fair amount of _sotto voce_ whispering. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Get the fuck back to work, you lot,” he said, but for once there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Shall we, angel,” he asked, gesturing toward the kitchen.

“Let’s, my dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling up at him. He couldn’t resist leaning up and giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Angel!” Crowley whined. “You’ll ruin my reputation!”

“Oh, nonsense, you big bad demon chef,” he laughed. “Now go out there and do your magic.”

“Our magic,” Crowley amended, and Aziraphale could feel his smile down to the very core of his soul.

\--

In the years that followed, Inferno gained a different sort of notoriety altogether in the restaurant world. The food remained spectacular – indeed, it got even better with every passing year, until even Gabriel could find nothing bad to say about it – but all the really juicy gossip revolved around the two men running the kitchen.

They were a strange pair, the angel in white and the demon in black, cooking up a storm in their own personal heaven. Crowley remained cantankerous as ever (although anyone who got to know him soon learned he had a gigantic soft spot called Aziraphale), and Aziraphale remained all sunshine and happy smiles (except if, heaven forbid, someone insulted his darling Crowley, in which case the full wrath of God would descend on their unworthy head). They were so different, such an unexpected combination, yet their chemistry worked together perfectly – like chocolate pudding with chillies, or sushi with strawberries.

Almost, one could say, like a perfect recipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who read along, and especially everyone who gave me some love in the comments - you guys keep me writing!
> 
> The good news is, my next story is already written, and I'm so excited to announce we'll be returning to the Weeping-'verse for that one. So if you haven't read Weeping yet, you might wanna do so in the meantime.
> 
> Love you all and stay safe! 😘
> 
> -S

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi in the comments, I love to chat!


End file.
